


A Thing of Blood

by DaughterofProspero



Category: Coriolanus - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, POV Second Person, Scars, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 01:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5950600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofProspero/pseuds/DaughterofProspero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I cannot speak him home: he stopp'd the fliers;<br/>And by his rare example made the coward<br/>Turn terror into sport: as weeds before<br/>A vessel under sail, so men obey'd<br/>And fell below his stem: his sword, death's stamp,<br/>Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot<br/>He was a thing of blood, whose every motion<br/>Was timed with dying cries..."</p>
<p>Coriolanus. Born to fight. Born to win. <br/>He understands who and what he is: A warrior, a leader, an honest man.<br/>Not a people-pleaser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thing of Blood

It is a beautiful thing, your body. A sculpture carved with swords and spears, scarred with endless tally marks bragging victory. Every notch a testament to your prowess. And power. Yours is a body built for battle; weaned on weaponry, reared to win. The hilt of a sword more familiar than that of a human touch.

There are the victorious and the defeated. The right and the wrong. The living, the dead. There is no time for shades of grey when an enemy - sword shining a wet maroon - rushes at you. In a moment either you or he are the latter and it will never be you.

It is not so simple to the populous. The politicians, the plebeians, all the same – vying for lies. Do one thing, but say another, they’ll believe what they want. Flatter the ugly, pity the foolish, thank the undeserving: Lie. Feed shit to the brown-nosers and they’ll give you a laurel.

You were not raised to hone an oil-slick tongue or a bended knee. You are a warrior, and honoured man yet your title is denied you because scars cannot speak on your behalf. Scars cannot lie.

So to Hell with them.

Leave them their hypocrisy, their backhanded praise – you will return to the barracks, the field, the wars. The enemy you know, you trust.

Adrenaline sending your arms arching through the air, fueling a thrust to the chest or a slice against weak chainmail. A final gasp lost in a mouthful of grass from a fallen enemy left in your glorious wake. The sting of an invisible arrow cutting through cloth and skin. Mud spattered on your bared teeth. Numb fingers flexing in agitation over a trusted pommel.

Through the haze of faceless men looms your final foe. Tullus Aufidius glittering in grit approaches you again. Lions circling each other, surrounded by a ring of destruction no one dares breach. A subtle and simultaneous bow: Brisk, curt, and esteemed as your combined reputations. Almost no respect runs deeper than that between allies who can never be. The copper-scented air crackles with electric expectation…

This is who you are. A thing of honest beauty. No make-up paste, no elegant robes, nothing impermanent marks you as a masterpiece. It is the latticework of wounds that declare nobility louder than a pretty voice ever could. Injuries do not speak to the populous and you are content to remain mute as far as they are concerned.

A mother.

An equal.

It is to them these one-line stories display your worth.

**Author's Note:**

> More descriptive than story-related. Always a nice challenge (pullin' out the ol' thesaurus).  
> I saw a broadcast of Coriolanus a few years ago and there was this really cool scene transition where Coriolanus is all bloodied from battle then a stream of water comes from above the stage and he steps into it. He takes off his armor and shirt and you see just how bad some of his wounds are (I remember a giant gash on his shoulder). And he rinses them, like, viciously. It clearly hurt, but he stays under the water, forcing himself to bear it. I don't know. It was really interesting. Almost animalistic in a way?  
> Anyways, that's what prompted this, I suppose.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


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